Page 26 of The Business of Blood

“How long has Mr. Night Horse been in London?” I ventured quietly.

“Surely, you don’t thinkhe’sJack the Ripper,” he scoffed. “You told me, yourself, your assailant sounded like an invert. Aramis has curious diction, but his voice is masculine, and his accent singular.”

I didn’t naysay that.

I also didn’t say that Aberline had often suspected Jack the Ripper didn’t work alone. I didn’t note thatthe Bladewas partly a moniker coined for the method of murder favored by the assassin. Wet work, some called it. Done by a specific knife, which closely resembled the very dimensions of the weapon used in the Whitechapel murders.

The Hammer assessed me as though unsure whether to catalogue me as loyal or a liability.

I said nothing.

With every part of myself, I wished I’d gone straight home after the Sawyers’ and thrown the turquoise beads off the London Bridge.

But then, I’d never have encountered the Ripper. That, in itself, was a double-edged blade.

He was a man I endlessly searched for.

One I hoped never found me in the darkness.

“I brought these to you in case you knew Frank Sawyer. In case you ordered his death and…in case you didn’t. I thought maybe Mr. Night Horse acted without your consent.”

The air around us changed, and I abruptly knew I was out of danger. My loyalty had been noted.

“Were you acquainted with Frank Sawyer?” I pressed.

“No, I never met the man. Nor did I wish him dead.” He seemed to consider something for a moment, then asked, “Fiona, did the inspectors see these beads?”

“No. I was able to keep them from notice,” I answered honestly. “But Croft does suspect you might have had a hand in the murder.”

His broad forehead furrowed. “Why on earth would he?”

I shook my head, as stymied as he. “Because of the manner in which the corpse was positioned?” I postulated. “Upside down, hanging by one foot, the other tucked behind him. Hands tied.”

“Pittura infamante,” he murmured. “I wonder what it means regarding this Frank Sawyer.”

I scowled. Had everyone heard of thispittura infamantebut me?

“A bit of a mystery, then, how these beads came to be with Mr. Sawyer if he was, indeed, the victim of the Ripper.” The Hammer glanced toward the partition.

“You doubt it?”

“I do not doubt your story, my dear. I doubt everyone else in it. The illumination of your disclosures only serves to create more shadows.”

I looked away from him then, a dark thrill rising inside of me. “If Jack the Ripper is killing again…maybe, he can be found. Maybehecan be killed.” I could say this to the Hammer. Unlike Aidan or Croft, he would understand my motivation. He would approve of it. I knew my appreciation of this did little to recommend me to most decent folk.

But it recommended me to the Hammer.

He looked at me, then, for a long time. “Why are you here, Fiona?”

“I already told you—”

“No, why are youherein this godless city? Why not fuck away off to America? There are more of you Irish there than are left on your starving island. The Ripper is not there. You would be out of evenmyreach. You have the money, why not go?”

“I have Aunt Nola to look after,” I hedged.

“You could lock her in a box and ship her there in five days.” He waved off my excuse for exactly what it was.

Malarkey.